


Love Will Have Sacrifices

by HallowQueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, BAMF Hermione Granger, F/M, Secret Identity, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9417677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowQueen/pseuds/HallowQueen
Summary: Dorcas Meadowes had died when Albus informed the Order of her death, but when he returns to Hogwarts and discovers that Poppy had managed to resuscitate the powerful witch, he gets an idea. Dorcas agrees to give up years undercover as a muggleborn to protect the Chosen One, but only when he swears to fully support a werewolf intermarriage law.  The downside? She has to live decades over again to be able to take advantage of it.





	1. Somewhere

Dorcas groaned, feeling another spasm of pain run through her body. Wasn’t the pain supposed to _stop_ when you were dead? Her nerves sizzled with aftershocks from the Cruciatus, and her eyes flew open as she drew in a breath that flared more pain through her body. She _shouldn’t_ be breathing. She knew that. She tried to open her eyes, with no luck.

“ _I think she’s coming around, Albus_!” A voice said somewhere, she heard it faintly, as though she were underwater.

Well, fuck. Apparently she couldn’t even die properly. Wasn’t that a kick when she was down. She tried to force her eyes open again, only to be blinded by bright light.

“Relax, my dear.” Albus Dumbledore’s voice said, quietly in her ear. He may have touched her too, because she felt another flare of pain that stopped when she hissed. “I thought you were dead, as did everyone else. Frankly it’s all to Poppy’s skill that you’ve survived. Sleep now, and when you wake, I’ll tell you your new mission.”

Dorcas wanted to protest, she didn’t want to sleep and she _certainly_ wasn’t up for a new mission. All she wanted to do was see her loved ones, but she couldn’t make her mouth work and consciousness faded as he murmured a spell low enough that she couldn’t make out the words.

When she woke again, it was to Poppy’s gentle touch, wiping her forehead with a cloth. She tried to say something, but she couldn’t seem to make words come out.

“Don’t strain yourself, Dora, dear.” Poppy murmured, holding a potion to her lips. “Give yourself a moment.”

Dorcas felt weak and useless, and it made her want to argue with the matron while she held potions to her lips as if she were a child. Still, she was nothing if not rational and swallowed down potion after potion with no complaint. The faster she could be healed, the faster she could be debriefed.

“Remus?” She croaked, after the third potion. “Where’s Remus?”

Poppy’s mouth creased, and her eyes glanced away in a way that Dorcas knew. In that moment of panic, she was five-years-old again and the Head Auror was looking down at her from the doorway with the same expression when she asked where her parents were.

“Poppy!” She yelled, or tried to yell, only for the noise to come out as a hoarse whisper. “He’s not dead, is he? Tell me he’s not dead.”

“No, no Dora, he’s alive.” Poppy reassured her. “You’ll send yourself back into a coma if you stress yourself so.”

“Uncle Aly?” She demanded, wanting to know why Poppy would give her that look.

“Missing a few pieces, but still the crotchety old man he’s always been.” Poppy assured her. “Now rest, and I’ll call Albus.”

Dorcas huffed uncertainly, but did her best to relax while doing inventory of her body as best she could. She had never been good at ‘resting,’ or quieting her mind. Still, she trusted Poppy and if it got her answers any sooner, she’d try.

After what felt like hours, but probably was far less than that, Albus Dumbledore appeared, strangely, without the Hogwarts matron. “Dorcas, you’re looking so much better.”

“Do me a favour and keep the mirrors at bay for a bit longer.” Dorcas said with a groan. “What have I missed?”

Albus sat on the corner of the bed, his eyes sad. “What you have to understand, Dorcas, is that I didn’t think you’d survive. Poppy says it’s a miracle you’ve regained consciousness more so than anything she had done.” He frowned. “You’ve been unconscious for months, Dorcas. Everyone believes you’re dead.”

Dorcas attempted to sit up, and only managed to get herself somewhat upright at this. “What do you mean everyone thinks I’m _dead_?”

Albus laid a comforting hand on hers. “Voldemort had you dumped at Alastor’s door. Alastor called Poppy, not trusting St. Mungo’s, and she rushed you to Hogwarts, where your heart stopped. I told everyone you were gone, but then hours later Poppy had you stirring awake. You were in a medical coma until today.”

“How long?” Dorcas demanded.

“Months.” Albus answered. “Voldemort has fallen while you slept.”

Dorcas took a deep breath and let it out. He was gone? The war was over? She wouldn’t have to be a brain on a stick anymore, profiling the darkest Death Eaters and the underbelly of wizarding society? She wouldn’t have to play chess with her friends' lives anymore or go on missions that were utterly necessary but would turn everyone else’s stomachs? “I want to see Remus and Uncle Aly.” She said, voice rough.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that for you, Miss Meadowes.” Albus said sadly.

“Why in the name of Nimue not?” Dorcas demanded, struggling to sit up further as the potions regenerated her muscles that were poor from disuse.

Albus tented his fingers and looked down at her with sad eyes. “Voldemort has fallen, Dorcas, but he will rise again. The only one who can truly defeat him is Harry Potter.”

“I’ll help Lily and James train him.” Dorcas promised, willing to bargain almost anything. “I’ll put him through the same paces Uncle Aly put me through. I’ll teach him to run the Garden Gauntlet, I’ll even improve it.”

“I’m afraid, dear girl, that Lily and James are dead.” Albus said sadly. “Lily sacrificed herself for her son, and in that there is great protective magic, but as he grows he will need people by his side, people he can trust. People _his own age_ who can help him grow.”

Dorcas knew in her gut something horrible was coming, but she tried again anyway. “I’ve always planned on children, Albus. A few years difference isn’t much. Look at how close Gid and Fab and Benjy were.”

“No, Dorcas.” Albus said, shaking his head. “Not your children, _you_ . Harry Potter will need _you_.”

“I changed his nappies, Albus!” Dorcas argued. “You just said he needed people his own age!”

Albus held up a vial. “A byproduct of my research into immortality, Dorcas, one closely guarded, unknown to everyone else. It will cause your age to regress, and we will place you into a loving muggle family. I will ensure you get your doses on time, and you will turn eleven and come to Hogwarts as his protector and friend.”

“No!” Dorcas protested, shaking her head. “He’s _gone_ , Albus. It’s my turn to live.”

“Selfishness does not become you, Dorcas.” Albus said seriously. “We must all make sacrifices.”

Dorcas closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Do you know what they did to me, Albus? What I _endured_ for the greater good? I withstood it _all_ for the Order, for the Light. I just...I just want to settle down in a cottage somewhere.”

“I know, my dear.” Albus said sadly. “And some day, when this is all over, you will.”

“Vague promises mean nothing.” Dorcas said tearfully. “You want me to sacrifice _decades_ , Albus, for what? Another war?”

“There was a potions discovery, Dorcas, one which allows werewolves to keep their human minds during transformation. Since its’ creation, there has been a bevy of legislation improving the lives of werewolves proposed, legislation that only needs the right sort of support as it comes up for vote.”

Dorcas paused, digging her nails into the sheets. She had heard about the Wolfsbane when it was in testing, but she had not known it was out. “What sort of legislation?”

Albus smiled at her in a way that suggested he wasn’t blackmailing her. “The kind of legislation that when this is over, would allow you to marry Remus as well as have that cottage somewhere. I believe Remus saved Phoebe’s wedding robes from your closet.”

Dorcas swallowed hard. The anti-werewolf legislation that did not allow a non-werewolf to marry a werewolf was something she hated. It had dashed her every hope for a proper wedding like Alice and Frank’s or James and Lily’s. It was a horribly girlish thing, but it had been a dream of hers that she had had to give up. She had been willing to do it. Remus was worth it, of course, but she had always dreamed of wearing her mother's wedding robes, walking down the aisle on Alastor Moody's arm to meet Remus and say her vows. “Swear me a wizard’s oath.” Dorcas demanded. “Swear to me that you will do everything in your power to protect Remus and everything in your power to pass that legislation.”

“And you will do it?” Albus checked.

“As long as it is necessary and poses no fatal risk to me that returning to my own age would reverse.” Dorcas agreed.

“Done.” Albus said, concealing the vial in his robes. “When you are completely healed, Poppy will administer it and I will have you placed with a good family, Dorcas. I will make sure you’re as loved as I can.”

“Love has sacrifices, Albus.” Dorcas said with a sigh. “I’m uninterested in playing dutiful daughter. Just take care of Remus and Uncle Aly for me.”

* * *

 Albus placed an adorable and very surly toddler into the nursery of the muggle home. “They are a lovely couple, Dorcas.” he assured her. “They had a muggleborn daughter, who sadly perished, I’ve simply modified their memories and all the muggle legal paperwork to erase this fact. You are now Hermione Granger. The potion has been modified and linked to her appearance, and so you needn’t worry anyone might recognise you as you grow.”

“Small evils, Albus.” Dorcas murmured, in the childish voice of this body.

“I don’t think giving a family a second chance is evil, Dora.” Albus said, with a frown. “You can have loving parents, and they have their daughter.”

“But I’m _not_ their daughter.” Dorcas said solemnly. “I’ve stolen some poor dead baby’s identity, and she’ll be forever forgotten now.” That ugly, dirty feeling that all-too-many Order assignments had caused was running through her again.

“You’ll remember.” Albus reminded her. “That’ll be enough, and it’s for the greater good. It’s best for everyone.”

“Except for Dorcas and Remus.” Dorcas snarked, sitting down in the cot. “Let’s just hope I can play toddler.”

“I have faith in you.” Albus said.

“I don’t.” Dorcas replied, but lay down anyway, and allowed the Headmaster to cover her with a soft blanket. “I can’t wait until this is all over.”

“Enjoy your second childhood, my dear. This war made you grow up too fast.” Albus suggested, sadly. "You have a second chance. Take advantage of it."

“I’ve always been older than most, Albus, I don’t do young very well.” Dorcas admitted. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And I don’t want to be alone for so long.”

Albus sighed sadly, and took hold of one of the plush toys in the room. With a few flicks of his wand, he had changed a teddy bear into a stuffed werewolf, and imbued it with a charm meant to mimic the scent-changing properties of Amortentia. He settled it beside her, and smiled sadly when she blinked in surprise and buried her face into the cuddly toy. “Sleep well, Dora.”


	2. Cuddly Toy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorcas struggles with growing up all over again, a war breaks out over her beloved stuffed werewolf, and Minerva comes to meet another muggleborn student.

Helen and Menlo Granger were good people and decent parents, if Dorcas was any judge, which...she probably wasn’t. Her own parents had died in the line of duty when she was only five, and she had very little memory of them, mostly vague impressions of warmth and laughter, the smell of her mother’s lilac perfume, or pressing her chin into her father’s hair when he carried her on his shoulders. She knew the stories, of course, everyone had been willing to tell her of how brave, smart and  committed to the light her parents were. How Evarius Meadowes had fallen in love with Phoebe Moody during Auror training, when she handed him his own arse in the duelling ring and asked her out when he was still on his back, how her mother had deskbound investigated while she was on maternity leave, irritated that she wasn’t permitted in the field. After her parents died, Uncle Alastor had taken her in, but he had no idea how to parent either, and approached it like training an Auror. She loved him dearly, and wouldn’t trade her childhood for anything, but it didn’t prepare her in the slightest for parents who wanted to dress her up and take her to the park where ‘hide and seek,’ wasn’t a lesson in stealth and capture.

She tried to be a child, but it wasn’t easy. She might have the body of a child, but she had the mind of a grown woman. Boredom was the worst. There were only so many episodes of Blue Peter one could sit through, even with her stuffed Moony at her side. They let her have books, but even those were monitored by the overprotective parents. So, Dorcas practiced her wandless and wordless magic when she was supposed to be napping, or the Grangers were out of the room for any length of time. She needed to challenge herself. It would be years before she got her hands on a wand again, but muggleborns had accidental magic, after all. No one could claim she was _knowingly_ doing anything wrong. She slowly got them accustomed to magic and things they could not explain as the years passed. “My magic doesn’t _work_ like that, Mum.” She informed them after a birthday party magic show for one of her ‘playmates.’.

Another time, while her mother was fretting over how it was ‘too scary,’ for her to watch Lon Chaney Jr’s ‘The Wolf Man,’ with the adults that night, she had giggled. “I’m not scared of werewolves, Mum, I’m going to marry a werewolf when I grow up.”

Once, her father found her in the library, curled up in a corner reading ‘Crime and Punishment,’ and he asked her if what he saw as a preschooler understood it at all, which led to a three hour spirited debate about the nature of murder, crime, war, guilt, and the greater good.

Life was good... for awhile, until child development psychology reared it’s ugly head.

* * *

 “She starts primary school in September, Menlo, we have to do something!” Helen Granger was saying, as Dorcas listened in from the top of the landing, hidden under a charm. The witch worried, wondering what this was about. Was she going to get a lecture on not doing any of her ‘tricks’ in public? She never did, knowing all too well the Statute of Secrecy, and what might happen.

“I know, dear, we can try it.” Menlo said, sounding defeated.

Dorcas had a bad feeling about this, as she climbed back up to her room. Hopefully her parents wouldn’t try and send her somewhere to fix her magic or to experiment on her. They were good people, and they seemed okay with it, after all. Worrying did no good, though, and she sighed as she tucked herself back into her bed, where she was supposed to have been for over two hours now. Flipping over, she buried her nose into the soft plush fur of her stuffed werewolf. She inhaled the scent of chocolate, parchment and warm grass, and let herself drift off, with a quiet: “Goodnight, Moony.”

When she woke, though, the usual warm peace of those first moments of wakefulness was gone, and instead, a grim kind of disquiet had settled over her, like the remains of a curse, oily and slick. Her muscles ached, and she forced herself up, tensing and relaxing her muscles in turn to push away the ache and stiffness. Getting out of the bed, she immediately started looking for her toy. The last time she had felt like this waking up, she had accidentally dropped him between her bed and the dresser. While she was well aware that her stuffed Moony wasn’t _really_ Moony, the scent had always comforted her and made her feel safe, especially while she was sleeping. If she knew one thing in her bones, it was that Remus wouldn’t let anything happen to her if he could stop it.

The toy wasn’t between her bed and the dresser. It wasn’t under her bed. It wasn’t under the dresser. She started to panic, feeling a little foolish even as she did. She was a grown woman, appearances aside, and she was losing her composure over a stuffed bit of fluff. At the same time, however, that stuffed bit of fluff was the only thing that was _hers_ . Oh, Hermione Granger had loads of things, and she liked almost all of them, but everything that had belonged to Dorcas Meadowes, everything that had meant anything to _her_ was gone, or who knew where. She had _nothing_ of Dora, former Ravenclaw and Auror, some days she even felt like she had entirely lost herself in this other girl. Mini-Moony was the only thing she had that was a tie to her real life, and a symbol to the life she wanted when all this was over. She _needed_ it. She needed it to anchor herself and remind herself that she wasn’t crazy and this wasn’t some kind of bizarre prison sentence.

She tore the room apart, dumping out drawers and ripping her bedclothes down to the mattress, as if it might have somehow gotten squished flat. She emptied out her closet, throwing every other toy in the corner like so much garbage, piling books on top of one another as she searched, not caring about the mess she was creating for once in her over-organised double life.

“Hermione? What’s all this?”

Dorcas looked up to see Menlo Granger standing in her doorway. When she saw the concern on his face, her distress won out, and she flew into his body, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Moony is missing!”

Menlo was surprised by the hug. Hermione was not an overly demonstrative child. She had no issues with hugs, kisses, and stories, but she never initiated them, instead only accepting them from her parents with easy smiles. He hugged his daughter close, and frowned. He had had a bad feeling about Helen’s plan, but she had insisted that psychology stated that “transitional objects” were meant to fall away by this age, and Hermione’s toy showed no signs of going anywhere, strange, since he couldn’t remember who had gotten it for her in the first place.  He hated to see his little girl so upset. “How about I help you look?”

“Please?” Hermione asked, looking up at him with wide brown eyes. “Please, Dad? I need him.”

“Of course, love.” Menlo said, feeling guilty, even as Hermione turned and began to go over her room with a fine tooth comb again. He dutifully moved furniture as she demanded, looked in nooks and crannies and called the search off at the end of the day, when it was time for dinner.

Menlo pulled his wife aside while Hermione washed her hands. “She’s beside herself, Helen.” He whispered. “I can’t stand seeing her upset, can’t we just put it somewhere for her to find?”

“It bothers me too.” Helen admitted, worrying her lip. “But I don’t want her forming any unhealthy attachments, and all the books say it’s past time. I’m sure she’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Dinner was a solemn affair, and Menlo traded looks with his wife as she cajoled Hermione to eat just a few more bites of chicken or a spoonful of lentils. Hermione just said she wasn’t hungry and pushed the food around on her plate.

“Sweetie, don’t you think this is a little excessive?” Helen asked her daughter. “It’s just a toy.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked back up to her parents, and an expression of horror crossed her face. “Did...did you _steal_ Moony?” She demanded, eyes wide as she looked between the two adults. “You...you wouldn’t betray my trust like that, right?” She said in a strained voice.

Helen bounced back in surprise. She never knew what to think when her daughter came across a concept like betrayal of trust in a way that was what Helen considered beyond her development level. “Of course not, sweetheart.” She lied, with a smile, feeling a bit of guilt for the first time. She was only doing what was best, wasn’t she? “I’m sure Moony is around here somewhere.”

* * *

That night, when Helen was awakened by screaming, she started out of bed. By the time she realised what the sound was, Menlo was already through the door, cricket bat in hand. There seemed to be no intruder, as she followed him, but they both went straight to their daughter’s room, and when the door opened, Helen felt her heart break just a little.

Hermione was asleep, but that’s where the screaming was coming from, a hoarse wail of pain, as she thrashed and trembled, covers tangled around her small frame. Helen sat gently on the edge of her bed, and shook Hermione’s shoulder gently. “Hermione, sweetheart, wake up, it’s just a dream.” She shook a little harder, startled when the screaming and flailing didn’t stop. “I...I can’t get her to wake up.”

Menlo had retreated into his best professional, clinical voice, firm and even, even when his mind was screaming. “It’s a night terror, Helen.” He observed. “Children with night terrors are difficult to rouse, remember poor Kenneth? We had to crown two of his teeth, he had such a bad bruxism during night terrors.”

“What can we do?” Helen asked, feeling powerless.

“We wait.” Menlo said simply, taking a seat in the rocking chair by the window. “There’s nothing we can do but be with her.”

The night terror went on for what felt like an eternity, but eventually, the screams dropped off, and Hermione seemed to relax...for a little while, at least, before she seemed to whimper as if she was in pain.

“I think it’s just a nightmare now.” Helen whispered.

Despite that, neither parent moved until morning. By the time Hermione woke, she had three more screaming fits and had flailed so hard she had hit her mother in the stomach. Helen didn’t care, she just wished her daughter would be all right.

Dorcas was exhausted when she woke up, her throat was dry and sore, and her muscles hurt. She shuddered, remembering the dreams...but could they be called dreams if they had already happened? She swallowed hard before she even opened her eyes, and was surprised when she felt a glass held to her lips, causing her to start slightly, as her eyes flew open to see Helen Granger with a glass of water. “Here dear, have some water.”

Dorcas attempted to smile, but it came out as more a grimace, and she gratefully drank the cold water. “Thank you, Mum.” She said gratefully, than scanning the room to see Menlo sitting in her rocking chair. “Um...why are you both here?”

“You had a bad dream, sweetheart.” Helen said, smoothing Hermione’s bushy hair in concern. “You were yelling in your sleep.” She frowned slightly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Dorcas shook her head so hard she made herself feel dizzy. “No.” She said, deciding to act as though nothing was wrong. “It was just a dream. I’ll be fine.” She had worked hard for these muggles to see magic in a positive light. If she talked about curses and blood and the twisted, grinning faces of psychopaths in masks, all of that would change. Even more than that, however, she didn’t _want_ to talk about it, didn’t know if she _could_ , especially now, when the feeling of their magic over her, of dark magic so old no one knew its’ true name, of Unforgivables and blood purity rhetoric was fresh in her mind again.

“If you’re sure…” Helen murmured.

Dorcas was sure a silencing charm would be going up on her room tonight, and not much else.

* * *

 Three days later, and Dorcas was dragging. Her eyes were sooty from lack of sleep, and she found herself randomly falling asleep, only to start awake a short time later, feeling that same sort of darkness coating her skin. She was barely keeping down food as well, though that was easier to hide than the bone-deep exhaustion. She had known that her ‘parents’ had taken the toy, and she had done her best to go without it, but there was a point where self-preservation had to sit on pride until pride said ‘ _Quidditch_.’ That did not mean she would resort to begging. She was cleverer than that. They would bring her stuffed werewolf back to her, probably by the end of the week.

“Helen, have you seen my pen?” Menlo was asking, searching the pockets of his lab coat and his many blazers.

“Check your desk, love.” Helen suggested, from where she was cleaning the remains of breakfast dishes.

“I already did, it isn’t there!” Menlo answered, searching his lab coat for the third time. He turned to his daughter, who was even more ashen and frizzy-haired than she had been after her night terrors, and sat down beside her on the floor. “Have you seen my pen, Hermione?”

Dorcas blinked at him, and dug into her art supplies currently in front of her to offer him a calligraphy pen from one of those sets of educational toys the Grangers filled the house with. “Here, Daddy.” She offered.

“No, I don’t want your pen, Hermione. I’m looking for the pen Aunt Lydia gave me.”

Dorcas frowned. “I haven’t seen it today. Did you lose it?”

“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.” Menlo said, patting his pockets. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He kissed her on the forehead, and left.

The next day, it was Helen searching frantically for her pearls, a gift given to her by her mother when she had turned of age and that Helen never left the house unless she was wearing, despite her strong opinions on equality. “Hermione, have you seen Mummy’s pearls?”

“Nope.” Dorcas said, stifling a yawn. “Maybe whoever took Moony took them.” She suggested, tiredly. It was awfully hard to plot on so little sleep, but she attempted to at least _look_ panicked. “Maybe we’ve been robbed!”

“I’m sure that’s not it.” Helen said with a sigh. “I must have just forgotten where I put them.”

Dorcas knew better of course, but plastered on a comforted expression with a nod as she watched Helen wind up her hair into a bun. “Yes, Mummy.” She knew Helen knew too, but neither of them said anything. It was a battle of wills.

Two days later, Moony reappeared, and after she got a good night’s sleep, so did her parents’ precious objects. Hopefully they had learned. Gryffindors avenged, Slytherins got revenge, Hufflepuffs never forgot, but Ravenclaws taught lessons that you couldn’t forget.

* * *

 As she got older, it didn’t really get any easier on Dorcas. She mimicked accidental magic quite often, wanting it to become completely normal for her muggle parents. School was hard as well, Dorcas, Hermione, whoever she was now, had trouble relating to children who were supposedly her own age. She hadn’t been overly good at it when she _had_ been a girl before, but she had a few friends. Alice Fortescue and she had been nearly inseparable despite Alice being a Gryffindor and Marsali Comyn had always been terribly kind in a way that made people think the Scottish witch should have been a Hufflepuff instead of a Ravenclaw. Now, really, she just wanted to sit in a corner and read so her eyes didn’t fall out of her head from rolling them too much at her classmates. She couldn’t blame them for being juvenile, it was primary school, after all, but Hogwarts couldn’t come soon enough. At least then she could delve into theories she had always wanted to explore, find out more about this potion Albus had told her about, and be a witch again. She could hide more advanced studies in her class notes, after all.

* * *

When Minerva McGonagall arrived at the Granger’s residence, Dorcas had to stomp on her own foot to keep from running up and hugging her. She hadn’t been in the stern woman’s House, but Minerva had always been of the opinion that Alastor Moody knew nothing of raising children, especially girl children, and had swept in often to ensure that Dorcas was well and to argue with Alastor. Minerva had always been the one to take her clothes shopping, to have those little awkward girl talks with her, and bet on her Sorting with Uncle Aly. Minerva had been the closest thing to a mother figure growing up, and Dorcas was still silently rooting for Alastor and Minerva to get their heads out of their arses and _get together already_. Even more than that, however, was what Minerva represented: her return to the magical world. Instead, she listened at the top of the stairs as Minerva revealed magic to her parents. They had figured it out, of course. It was hard not to, when your daughter regularly walked around the house with a stuffed werewolf levitating behind her and a book in front of her. They also suspected she made her broccoli disappear, and they weren’t wrong. They had become acclimated to the magic around the house easily enough.

“Mr. and Mrs. Granger, thank you for seeing me.” Minerva’s voice was kind, but still the firm old witch that Dora trusted.

“Of course.” Menlo said, smiling. “You said you’re a professor?”

“Yes, I am deputy headmistress at a boarding school in Scotland for... _gifted_ children.”

“We know our Hermione is quite advanced, but I’m not sure boarding school is an answer.” Helen said, with the clink of china. “Sugar, ma’am?”

“Yes, please.” Minerva answered. There was a pause, before Minerva thanked her parents and resumed the discussion. “That wasn’t quite the gifts I was referring too.” She admitted. “Have you ever noticed that things seem to... _happen_ around your daughter, things that you can’t explain?”

The polite warmth had disappeared entirely from Menlo’s voice when he spoke next. He had gone from mild-mannered dentist to protective father in an instant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor. I think it’d be best if you left now.”

Dorcas winced, apparently her own nerves about anyone seeing her magic had rubbed off on her parents. She had to fix this, and she saw only one way as Minerva tried to mend the broken down lines of communication. “Come on, Moony, let’s save Aunt Min.” She hated divination, but she had been accused of being a seer many times before. She wasn’t, she was just very good at reading people, getting into their heads and predicting what they would do next. It was why she had been the chief strategist for the Order, behind Dumbledore, of course. She could play it up a bit, though. So, she did, bouncing excitedly into the parlour, with Mini-Moony levitating at her side, a grin on her face.

“Professor McGonagall!” She said excitedly, barely resisting the urge to call her ‘Aunt Min.’ “I’m so glad you’re here! I can’t wait to go to Hogwarts.”

Minerva was just as startled as the Grangers at this declaration. “Is that so?” She said, albeit warmly. “Have we met, my dear?”

“Oh, I’m Hermione Granger.” Dorcas said, holding out a hand to the witch. “I’m sorry, I let my excitement get ahead of me.”

“That’s quite alright.” Minerva replied, shaking her hand. “How do you know about Hogwarts?”

“I…” Dorcas took a deep breath and let herself slide into the eleven-year-old personality she had been cultivating. “I just do. Sometimes I just know things. Is that bad?”

“Not at all.” Minerva said, giving her a smile. “Rare, but not bad, Miss Granger.”

Dorcas...no, Hermione, she had to be Hermione now, for better or worse. _Hermione_ looked at her parents and noticed they were still on edge, and uncertain. “Don’t worry!” She assured them. “Professor McGonagall is a witch, like me!”

Her parents relaxed a little more, and the four of them soon delved into a basic primer of the wizarding world, as explained to muggleborns, when Minerva asked the question Dorcas (and not Hermione) had been waiting years to get so that she could ask a question for which she desperately needed the answer.

Do you have any other questions before we head to Diagon Alley, Miss Granger?”

Dorcas had long since released the levitation on Mini-Moony to hold him to her chest during this stressful conversation, and clutched him a little tighter. “Can witches marry werewolves, Professor McGonagall?”

Minerva’s eyebrows reached her hairline at that question, and she took a closer look at the toy in the young muggleborn’s arms, with the slightly shorter snout than an average wolf and the tufted tail. “Yes, they can, Miss Granger. It is a controversial piece of legislation, but the Ministry of Magic does allow it. Why do you ask?”

“Oh. Hermione’s been insistent that she was going to marry a werewolf when she grew up since she was small.” Menlo said in amusement. “She’s very rarely wrong.”

“Indeed.” Minerva repeated, looking at the young girl a little closer. “I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful student, Miss Granger.”

“I’ll try my best, Professor.” Hermione answered, hoping that _maybe_ , just _maybe_ Minerva would see through Albus’s potion and spellwork.


End file.
